Unity in Parting
by Evvy
Summary: Someone important in Methos's life dies. Futurefic.


**Unity in Parting**

White faces streaked with tears and rain focussed on the woman who paid the last respects to the father she had not known long enough. He looked around. It was not a surprise to see so many grief-stricken faces, mortal and immortal, united and re-united to bid farewell to the man who had known both realms.

The coffin was lowered into the grave. Mac hugged Amanda even tighter and whispered words of consolation into her ear. It was his cue to leave. They would not stop him. He did not belong with them.

He strolled among the gravestones not feeling the rain, not seeing the names, not thinking about anything but the man whose life had been devoted to the likes of him. A small, sad smile passed through his face. When was the last time they spoke to each other? Must have been fifteen years ago.

Methos felt the buzz of presence and scanned the surroundings. MacLeod was standing about fifty feet away and waiting. Methos shrugged and continued his stroll, letting himself feel the wet, heavy drops. The presence intensified and with a corner of his eye he watched the Highlander fall in step with him.

They kept walking. The silence stretched between them, interrupted only by squelching sounds of their booted feet and by the steady thrum of raindrops on every possible surface. Early spring brought warmth, but it didn't manage to penetrate the chill that he had succumbed to a few mere days ago.

The silence was comfortable. Much more than the unavoidable accusations that would be issued if one of them opened his mouth. Methos let MacLeod lead them to the gates of the cemetery. Amanda was waiting near a black SUV, a large umbrella held tightly to her chest.

"Will you come to the loft with us"

Them. "No, I don't think so. I have a plane to catch."

"Please." MacLeod didn't look at him, and but the plea sounded sincere. "We shouldn't be alone today."

They. "I'll come."

Amanda's pallor was in stark contrast with the blackness of her clothes. She was swallowing back her tears as she kissed him on the cheek and rested her head on his soaked shoulder. "I'm glad you agreed" she whispered.

She climbed onto the back seat, leaving him with no choice than to go to the front and sit next to MacLeod, who turned on the engine and drove them to the dojo.

Buildings and people were blurred silhouettes, grey and black shapes appearing and disappearing, none of them catching his eye. Only when they stopped for red light, a couple of young people, in their mid-twenties, captured his attention. They were running, reckless and light-hearted, letting the rain soak them to the skin, making their clothes cling to their bodies, their hair plastered to their foreheads. They were running, laughing, holding their hands and not letting go for one moment. Other people moved out of their way, as if fearing to be contaminated by their freedom. Methos longed to get out of the car and touch them to get infected. He searched his memory desperately for a moment of such unbridled joy and seemed not to be able to find a single one.

He was in control of his feelings, he thought.

MacLeod gave him dry clothes, and Methos used the few minutes in the bathroom to school his face into a neutral mask. The image in the mirror confirmed he wasn't out of practice, even his eyes were betraying nothing.

When he left the bathroom he found Amanda huddled in one corner of the couch and MacLeod pouring three steaming mugs of tea and dousing them with healthy amounts of whiskey. He took the other corner of the sofa, and was slightly surprised when Amanda moved to lean against him, and put her head on his shoulder again.

They accepted the mugs from MacLeod, who straddled a chair and cradled his mug in his hands. If not for the rain, Methos was sure, the only sounds in the loft would be those of their breaths and heartbeats. One too few of each.

MacLeod wasn't looking at either of them, his eyes cast down and his face obscured by the hazy vapour of the tea. Methos noticed the tension in the shoulders, the barely contained grief. Amanda didn't fight hers, he had felt her tears. But MacLeod had to be strong for them. The thought was familiar; he had always been this way.

Methos looked through the window. The day seemed to be coming to a close and he felt he needed to be away from here. Away from their stifling need to share the emotions he couldn't share with anyone.

Amanda's hand clasped on his. She straightened and took a sip of her cooled tea. Methos realised he didn't drink his, but he had accepted it only pro forma. She was looking at him and he turned to look back. Her red-rimmed eyes were full of some unvoiced plea, and his incredulity must have shown on his face, as Amanda turned her head minutely towards Duncan. What did she want?

A sound of a ring-tone broke their silence. Amanda squeezed his hand and fumbled for her minute purse to answer the call.

"Yes… Yes… I'll be down in a minute." She looked at him with renewed plea and he shook his head in response. He wasn't ready to stay on his own with the Highlander and face his grief and the inevitable. Amanda sighed and smiled sadly. He saw understanding in her gaze.

"Duncan" she whispered leaning over the Scot. "I have to leave. Nick is waiting for me."

MacLeod looked up at her and reached with his hand to caress her cheek. "I love you, Amanda."

"I love you too, Duncan." She kissed him lightly on the lips and turned to Methos. He didn't expect her to hug him so fiercely. He didn't expect to reciprocate as fiercely. He didn't expect her soft words. "I love you too, Methos."

She grabbed her umbrella and left not looking back.

The rain was still pounding steadily against the window panes. Dusk was slowly creeping into the loft, shadows dancing their _danse macabre_.

Methos let his eyes close and he was drifting into his thoughts, the words of the message about Joe repeating in his mind. He had decided then not to attend the funeral. But he did. Joe needed him.

And Joe was gone. He wasn't needed here. He got up, stretching his tense muscles. A quick glance on his watch confirmed that his plane had already left. There would be another one. If only he could get out of here, catch a cab and drive directly to the airport. He had to do it now.

"Methos."

"I'll send you your clothes back, MacLeod." No reminders this time.

"Do you have to go" MacLeod still wasn't looking at him. He clutched at his mug, his hands shaking with tension.

"Yes." Yes, he had to go. He had a life to go back to. His small bookshop in Barcelona, bought from a very old, very hippie Englishwoman, together with three gigantic Siamese cats. The cats didn't like him, but they protected the bookshop savagely. It was just enough to make his living and to be able to indulge in his slow life in otherwise fevered city.

Methos steeled himself for the inevitable onslaught of questions, but none came.

"I loved him too, MacLeod." He tried to provoke the Highlander, his need to hurt overcoming his reason.

"I know" came a soft reply. No accusation, just acknowledgement. "But how did you know what happened"

"Email." What he didn't say was that he'd found the message in an ages-old account of whose existence he had forgotten. It hadn't even been full, and he still didn't know why he checked the messages instead of deleting the whole account.

"Oh. He didn't tell me you kept in touch."

"We didn't."

"I see."

It was obvious that MacLeod didn't understand. His coat was still wet, but it didn't matter. He'd collect his backpack at the airport and change into something dryer and more presentable than MacLeod's clothes. Always prepared. And he called the Scot a boy scout.

A small snort escaped him. It earned him a reaction full of angry misunderstanding. "Yes, you're right. I don't understand. Why the hell did you come here, Methos? To gloat? To spill your five-thousand-year-old wisdom that mortals die and we have to move on? Live, Highlander; grow stronger, fight another day? Well, fuck you"

There it was. What he had been expecting from the moment the Scot noticed him on the cemetery. It would be so easy to lash back at MacLeod with his own accusations, to give vent to the anger that fought with grief. But he wanted to hurt. It was the only thing left to make him feel alive. What would he be without it? A hermit spending another two hundred years away from people and the Game? His life had changed long before he met the Scot. His life had changed the day he met Joe Dawson. Meeting MacLeod was just an extension of that acquaintance.

The room was dark and Methos was glad the Scot couldn't see his face. He wasn't sure if his carefully schooled mask was still in place.

Methos shrugged on his coat and trudged to the elevator. His cats were waiting for him.

"Will we meet ever again"

He stilled with his hand on the crate. "Maybe."

"I hope we will, Methos. Do you have to go? It's late. You could catch a plane tomorrow." The Scot was obviously trying to make amends for his earlier outburst.

"I have a life, Highlander."

"Yes, as we all do. Good-bye, Methos."

"Good-bye, Mac."

He entered the elevator and pushed the crate down. He could see the dark silhouette of MacLeod, his hunched shoulders shaking with silent crying. His own tears threatened to loosen the tightness in his throat. But now wasn't the right time to grieve.

Methos was about to press the button of the ground floor when he heard a faint whisper. "I just don't want to be alone today." He wasn't sure who said the words, but it didn't matter. Loneliness was their burden. He pressed the button and the elevator descended.

The night was cool and he shivered as he stepped out of the dojo. He walked, letting the rain soak him again. The pain eased a little; he would survive, they would both survive. Methos couldn't wait to be back in his bookshop, where his cats would hiss and spit at him. He couldn't wait to sit at his old, mahogany desk, with a bottle of good scotch. He couldn't wait to let himself remember. And then to move on. Maybe to look for someone who could fill another of the holes made in his soul.

He stopped walking and looked up into the rain. He let it wash his face. He wondered if his Watcher was cursing him for being exposed to the mercilessness of heavens. After fifteen years he'd be able to be free from the constant prickling of being watched. And from the persona of the poor grad student, ex-Watcher turned Immortal who hid from other Immortals. If heaven existed, Joe would know where Methos was anyway.


End file.
